


Blanket Nests and Gradual Getting Betterness

by nightmaresinwintah



Category: Marvel
Genre: Blanket Nests, Bucky doesn't take his shit, Depressed Steve, Finally, M/M, Oh, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers Takes A Break, actually does anyone, also that this was done whilst mostly sleep deprived, ha, he's also an idiot, listen i can't tag but just know i Tried, neither does Nat tho, so is Steve though so that's okay, this fic is a MESS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 17:36:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8219420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmaresinwintah/pseuds/nightmaresinwintah
Summary: Sometime around three hours after he’s finished his fifth bag of microwave popcorn that day (it’s so good he can’t believe how much butter there is) there’s a knock on his door. He sits up and looks around a bit wild-eyed at the mess of his apartment that reflects his inner soul. He throws a blanket over the coffee table and kicks things out of the way - put the couch cushions back, mugs on the bench, jesus what is the shield doing there, why the fuck is there blood on this shirt - and opens the door. 
Natasha glares at him from the other side. “Your boyfriend is causing trouble again,” she says, stepping past him into his apartment. 
He blinks once. Twice. “Okay, one, he’s not my boyfriend. Two, he’s an angel, and three - is he okay?”

  Or, Steve is a big fucking Mess and he and Bucky are just really really in love and they really really care about each other, okay?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay no seriously I wrote this between 2 and 3:30 am because I, too, am a giant Mess. Shout out to [arolouis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/arolouis) aka the best human being for putting up with my shit.

Steve Rogers is a Mess. Anyone who has witnessed him crying about getting paint chips from his paint-covered hands in his scrambled eggs can tell you this. Thankfully, only Sam and Natasha know about this particular accident, so Steve’s dignity can remain under the false pretenses of being intact. 

See, the world likes to view Steve as a well-put-together National Icon. To the public, he is Captain America, leader of the Avengers and World War II Hero. Which. Okay, yes, he is all of those but is he  _ really.  _ He has doubts, okay? And these doubts mostly come to fruition during times like the scrambled eggs and paint chips incident. In particularly spectacular break-down moments Sam likes to remind Steve that it was Steve himself who saved his lunch of scrambled-eggs on toast by substituting the ruined eggs with simple banana and sugar. 

It’s in moments like those that Steve kind of believes that he is a master strategist. He’s unbelievably cunning like that. But. He’s so far from the perfect all-American that the public sees him as. So, so very far. In fact, there are  _ so many  _ magazine articles speculating his diet and workout routine, discussing how well he must eat and how well he must workout regularly. 

He lets them believe that he does both of those things. He has an  _ image.  _

The image is a lie. As a matter of fact, Steve has been sitting on his couch cushions on the floor watching re-runs on the T.V for the past three days with intervals of shitty food every few hours. He has completely caught up on  _ The Great British Bake-Off  _ and is currently crying over how spectacular Selasi’s cake was. He’s absolutely blown away. 

So. Case-in-point. Steve Rogers is a  _ fucking  _ Mess. 

Sometime around three hours after he’s finished his fifth bag of microwave popcorn that day (it’s  _ so good  _ he can’t believe how much butter there is) there’s a knock on his door. He sits up and looks around a bit wild-eyed at the mess of his apartment that reflects his inner soul. He throws a blanket over the coffee table and kicks things out of the way -  _ put the couch cushions back, mugs on the bench, jesus what is the shield doing there, why the fuck is there blood on this shirt -  _ and opens the door. 

Natasha glares at him from the other side. “Your boyfriend is causing trouble again,” she says, stepping past him into his apartment.

He blinks once. Twice. “Okay, one, he’s not my boyfriend. Two, he’s an  _ angel,  _ and three - is he okay?”

Natasha is staring at the Mess. She sighs deeply like this whole scenario causes her a great deal of pain before walking across the room to open the curtains. Steve winces at the sudden light. It’s day? “He’s fine, you hermit. You’d know this if you left your apartment for something other than missions.”

“I -” he has no comeback. “I have no comeback. If he’s fine then how is he causing trouble?” 

Natasha goes to sit on the couch but pauses at the sight of misshapen couch cushions. She settles on the armrest. “He’s  _ insisting  _ that we let him come home from the mission early and that there’s no real threat. Which is utter bullshit because we were told from a reliable source that Putin was making a move -”

“He’s coming home early?” Steve perks up, the hazy grey cloud that seems to settle around his brain every time he’s alone clearing a little. 

Natasha visibly restrains herself from attacking him. “ _ No,  _ but he’s insisting that we let him,” she repeats. 

Steve feels his shoulder drop down again and the cloud sweeps back on in at full-tit. “Oh.”

“Jesus, you two have a serious co-dependency thing going on, you know? Barnes is just as bad.”

Steve manages a half-hearted glare. Natasha rolls her eyes and stands up, walking to the kitchen. Steve winces at the clattering of ceramics being moved around, and then the kettle’s beginning to scream. “He’s not my boyfriend,” he insists, dragging himself to the kitchen to flop onto a stool. 

Natasha doesn’t even pause as she stirs in far too much coffee to her drink. “Yet,” she hums, lifting the steaming cup to her lips. 

“We’re - he hasn’t - we’re still both - I don’t know -”

“Sort your shit out, Rogers, jeez. You’re both so in love with each other, Matt Murdock could see it,” she says, blowing carefully at the coffee, clearly favouring a burnt tongue. 

Steve drops his head into his hands. “When’s he coming home?” he mumbles miserably. So what. He misses Bucky. A lot. 

“When he completes his mission,” Natasha replies. 

Steve chews on the bitten inside of his cheek instead of following up the not-answer with more questions. He’s so  _ tired,  _ and yet all he’s been doing is napping and sleeping and watching GBBO. Sort his shit out, alright. He’s a  _ Mess.  _

*

With Steve Rogers AKA Mess established, now would be the time to mention that he’s much less so when Bucky’s around. It’s like....it’s like he can breathe again, when all he was doing before was sucking in desperate gasps of mustard gas. Horrible stuff. He sleeps most the time Bucky’s away - which isn’t all that often, what with him still mostly healing from 70 years of brainwashing and everything that came with it. But still. Bucky’s been away for  _ a whole damn week  _ at this point. 

Steve’s losing it. 

The apartment is a mess, his goddamn mind is a mess and he can’t do a single thing about it. He’s made a nest on the floor on the couch cushions and is slowly wasting away. The T.V is on in the background, some  _ Survivor  _ season, but he doesn’t have the energy to watch it. Instead, he burrows into his nest, closes his eyes and imagines that Bucky’s here. He tries to breathe. 

At some point he hears the window that doesn’t have locks on it shimmy open. He cracks open one eye and hopes it’s someone he knows because if it isn’t he’ll have to get up and getting up means using energy he doesn’t have. He looks straight under the coffee table, under the couch and at the skirting boards below said window. 

Boots drop to the carpet from the window a moment later, and Steve feels tears welling in his eyes. It’s definitely someone he knows. “What the fuck?” he hears. 

The combat boots stalk forwards and around the couch, past the coffee table and come to stand directly in front of the opening to Steve’s blanket nest. He blinks at the splatters of dirt, grit and blood on the boots. The boots shift slightly and then shuffle backwards, giving the owner room to settle down on his knees and peer into the nest. 

Stunning grey-blue eyes meet Steve’s through the darkness. “Bucky,” Steve  _ breathes.  _

“What’re ya doin’ in there, punk?” Bucky drawls, face all amused and exhausted. It’s a strange combination. Makes him look half-crazed. 

Steve’s heart swells three times too big. “ _ Buck,”  _ he says simply. 

Bucky gets this look in his eyes that Steve has come to recognise as adorably exasperated. “Ya doin’ okay?” Bucky asks. 

Steve shuffles forward and pokes his heads out of the nest. “Fine ‘n dandy, Buck. How was the mission?” he has to ask. 

“Exhausting. Move over,” Bucky says, and that’s all the warning Steve gets before Bucky is shucking off his boots and burrowing into the blanket nest. 

Steve grimaces as one of the guns hanging of his best guy’s tac vest jabs him in the stomach. “No weapons in the blanket nest,” he grumbles. 

“Sorry, punk,” Bucky sighs. He sounds sincere enough, so Steve lets it pass. “But really, how’re ya doin’? Nat told me ya haven’t been out since I left,” he pushes. 

Steve closes his eyes, wishing he’d at least  _ tried  _ to feign normalcy while Bucky’d been gone. “I was havin’ a break.”

“When was the last time you ate?” Bucky’s accent takes a detour from delicious Brooklyn down Soviet Lane. It happens. They’re used to it. 

Steve sighs, previous refreshing energy suddenly being sapped out of him. “When the popcorn ran out,” he admits. Bucky’s silence is warning enough before he’s being punched in the shoulder. Steve yelps. “Hey! No violence in the blanket nest,” he whines. 

“You’re a goddamn  _ punk,”  _ Bucky growls, eyes flashing in the dim light. 

Steve scowls at him instead of curling into a ball and giving up on the world like he wants to.  _ “Jerk,”  _ he spits back. 

Bucky closes his eyes, sighing and dropping his head down onto the cushions. Steve presses his lips together into a thin line before unclenching his jaw and forcing his muscles to relax. Instead of trying to make the situation better with words, he settles down onto his stomach and leans into Bucky, not mentioning the knife he can feel millimeters away from his ribs. 

After a moment, Bucky’s arm comes up to wrap around Steve’s waist and pull him closer. 

The knife is sheathed and does not stab him.

*

He wakes up vaguely disgruntled but to the smell of pancakes. He reaches up a hand to rub sleep out of his eyes before crawling out from under the blankets and going to investigate. Bucky’s uniform is in a crumpled heap on the couch, weapons and all. At further inspection, there is less blood than previously assumed and absolutely no bullet or knife holes. Pride and happiness swells in Steve’s chest; Bucky had been  _ careful.  _

“Stevie, that you? You awake?” comes from the kitchen. 

Steve stumbles through the doorway and finds Bucky standing bare-chested at the stove, in the act of flipping a pancake. He pauses just to watch for a moment, feeling his lips pull into a gentle smile. Bucky successfully flips the pancake and sets it back on the element before turning around. He sees Steve hovering there and smiles softly. 

“Hey, punk. C’mere, I made breakfast,” he says. 

Steve shuffles over to him and attacks him with a hug. He buries his nose into the crook where Bucky’s neck meets his shoulder and just  _ breathes.  _ “Buck,” he sobs like a confession. 

Bucky’s arms come up to hug him, holding him steady and close. “Hey, Steve,” he murmurs, apparently content to let Steve have his moment. 

“Missed you,” Steve says next. 

“Missed you too, pal.”

Something sharp jabs at Steve’s stomach and he pulls back, taking a moment to gather himself and plaster on a smile. “Breakfast?” he asks. 

“Don’t do that,” Bucky huffs. Steve freezes, eyes darting back to Bucky in a panic. Bucky’s just frowning, concern set into the crease between his eyebrows. “I can see right through it, asshole. Don’t... _ pretend  _ with me,” Bucky clarifies. 

Steve is a goddamn Mess and he can’t even hold himself together for Bucky. “Sorry,” he whispers. 

“Steve - jeez. Just. You’re allowed to not be okay, alright? But don’t lie to me.”

Steve swallows, tries to dislodge the lump in his throat, and looks down.  _ You’re a fucking mess, pal,  _ his brain supplies. He knows this. He does. “I’m a Mess,” he mutters.

“Steve. Honey. I  _ know,”  _ Bucky says, reaching out a hand and taking Steve’s. 

Steve squeezes it gratefully. “I can do better?” he offers. 

Bucky looks pained. “Have breakfast first,” he bargains. 

They have breakfast first. 

*

After breakfast - which had been  _ delicious -  _ Steve has a brief moment of motivation and escapes while Bucky’s doing the dishes. He opens the lounge curtains from where he’d shut them again and begins cleaning up the warzone. It’s halfway presentable by the time Bucky comes in and sits on the newly back-together couch. 

“I think you should take a break from the whole Cap thing.”

Steve drops the cup and hears it shattering on the coffee table distantly, as though through a wall. He stares at Bucky who stares right back, concern dancing in his eyes. “What.”

“You heard me. Steve - you need a serious break. Some good long months or  _ years,  _ even.” 

“Why.”

Bucky has that pained look back on his face. “Because you’re not okay and a break would help? So would, I dunno, a fucking  _ therapist,  _ but I know that’s something to work up to.”

“ _ What.”  _

“Steve, c’mon. The first step to getting help is admitting you need it. Like when I came crawling back through that hospital window to see you after the helicarriers? Except not so dramatic.”

Steve takes a big, deep breath and slowly sits down. The room stops spinning. “A break.” He rolls the words around in his head. They feel foreign. He frowns. 

“We could go to Bali. Hawaii. Fiji.  _ Anywhere,  _ what with Stark’s black visa. We could do anything.”

“We?” Steve squeaks, eyes darting back to Bucky’s face from where they’d drifted. 

Bucky’s eyes are soft. “Yeah, Steve. Ya think I’d leave ya alone through this anymore than I already have?”

“But - you had to?” Steve is so confused. 

Bucky closes his eyes. “I had to leave, yes, but that was because I was no good for you like that. I got  _ better,  _ Steve, and now I’m here. I’m still getting better, really.”

Steve swallows past the dryness of his throat. “Fiji?” he echoes, heart warming at the shine Bucky’s eyes take at the word. 

Bucky nods and stands up, kneeling down next to Steve on the floor. “If that’s where you wanna go, then we can go,” he promises. 

Steve smiles, leaning into Bucky’s side. “Can Sam be Cap while we’re gone?” he asks. 

Bucky just hums out a pleased sound and leans his head on top of Steve’s. 

*

Fiji is warm. The first time Steve tries to build a blanket nest after a particularly bad day he ends up crying in the sweating heat. He refuses to get out of the nest though, much to Bucky’s dismay. Instead of trying to get Steve out of the predicament he’s gotten himself in, Bucky just brings him ice packs and a bottle of refrigerated water. Steve makes pleased sounds from under the pile of blankets. 

Things move slowly here. There’s not really much to do except swim, eat and sleep. Bucky’s gotten in touch with a few therapists recommended to him for Steve by Bucky’s own, but so far Steve has refused to see any of them. 

There’s little progress, but there’s still some. Steve feels like he’s got more energy, and Bucky says it’s because he hasn’t got the weight of the world on his shoulders. Steve also eats less popcorn and more vegetables. Bucky likes - loves - to cook. This probably has something to do with Steve having more energy, too. Bucky keeps him away from the T.V and social media as well, keeping him present and down to Earth. 

Because he refuses a therapist (for now), Bucky likes to put Steve through little... _ exercises.  _ Like standing just at the shoreline and breathing deep and slow, telling Steve to try and stay aware of every little thing. Every sound, smell and physical feeling. Steve finds the slight breeze ruffling his hair the most calming. It doesn’t take long before Steve finds himself grounding himself in everyday motions, like pouring hot water into a mug or crawling into bed at night. 

Slowly. Gradually. Steve Rogers becomes less of a Mess and more of a Disorganisation. He’s getting there. 

“Stevie, you ready for lunch?” 

Steve looks up from where he’s running his hands over the balcony railing and smiling at the little grooves in the metal and the chips in the paint. “Yeah, Buck, I’ll be there in a sec,” he calls back. 

He’s also stopped wondering why Bucky puts up with him. Bucky had explained it extremely simply.  _ ‘In the beginning, after the Winter Soldier. You took care of me. Why?’ ‘Because it was unimaginable to not. Buck, it’s not the same, the things you went through -’ ‘I’m gonna cut you off there, pal. What about the things  _ you  _ went through?’  _

So. Buck wore Steve down till Steve accepted the shithole he’d dug himself into and began accepting the hands trying to help him crawl out of it. 

“You’re thinking too hard,” comes from far too close. 

Steve jumps, but then his gaze settles on Bucky and he has nothing but a soft smile on his face. “I was on my way,” he murmurs. 

Bucky holds out his arms and Steve willingly falls into them. “Mhm,” Bucky hums, smiling against Steve’s cheek. “C’mon, it’ll get cold.”

Steve follows behind him, their hands intertwined. That’s the other thing. Natasha had come to visit, bringing a smile and a massive hand-knitted sweater with her. (It’s perhaps coincidental that Steve has worn the thing every single day since she’s been gone.) She’d taken one look at their sorry asses and ordered them to get their shit together to which Bucky had replied;  _ ‘That’s what we’re trying to do, kotik.’  _

She’d deadpanned and Steve had panicked. Three days later he and Bucky were crying over each other and admitting their goddamn feelings. 

“You’re really stuck in your head today, hm? You doing your grounding techniques?” Bucky asks. 

Steve just hums, taking a bite of the sandwich. “Just thinking, s’all,” he says. 

“Can I ask what about?”

Steve smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. He swallows his mouthful before replying. “M’happy,” he shrugs. 

Bucky’s whole face goes soft. “Me too, Stevie,” he replies, voice full of warmth. 

And so. Steve continues his journey from Mess through to Fully Functioning Adult With Some Bad Days But Mostly Good Days. It’s...it’s pretty damn good. 

  
They also adopt a cat and name her Carter. 

**Author's Note:**

> not kidding the scrambled eggs with paint chips in them thing happened to me. I cried. I fixed it by putting banana on toast instead and ignoring the fucking eggs. 
> 
> also I'm on tumblr if u wanna, like, yell or something. [buckyskillingme](http://buckyskillingme.tumblr.com)


End file.
